


I Put A Spell On You

by Elayna



Category: Die Hard (Movies)
Genre: M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-07
Updated: 2012-10-07
Packaged: 2017-11-16 08:12:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/537355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elayna/pseuds/Elayna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Matt watches John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Put A Spell On You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [iadorespike](https://archiveofourown.org/users/iadorespike/gifts).



Matt was enough of a man to admit when he was wrong.

Not that it happened often, because Matt believed in forming his own opinions and not just swallowing other people's pap like a sheep. He was smart, analytical, and a voracious reader, questioning everything.

He'd firmly believed that old music, 'classic rock' his ass, was crap. He'd proclaimed his derision numerous times, mocked people like John who held onto the twaddle of their youth, despite the much better music that had been produced since last century.

But then he'd strolled into John's kitchen with his laptop, apologizing for his lateness and needing to finish a last few lines of coding. John had just shrugged and pointed his beer bottle at a chair, inviting Matt to do his work while John made dinner.

John was dressed in a white cotton t-shirt, the kind available in every discount store, and jeans. Not skinny jeans, not bell bottoms, just plain, straight-legged jeans. His brown leather belt matched his brown shoes.

Giving Matt a wry look, John raised his MP3 player, seeking tacit permission, which Matt returned with a shrug of his own, knowing that his eardrums were about to be assaulted, figuring he deserved it for arriving with work still to do. Though his parents had never succeeded in instilling most of their values in Matt, they had managed to teach him that one shouldn't show up at a dinner invitation occupied with business.

As predicted, John started his Creedence playlist, one of his favorites. John had still been listening to his old vinyl records when Matt began visiting him regularly. Not that he wanted to encourage John's clinging to the 'should be long buried' past, but the crackle and hiss of worn-out vinyl had been intolerable. John had seemed pleased to receive the MP3 player with its external speakers, most of his albums already loaded on it, and quickly adapted to the convenience of using it.

Matt never told John he'd torrented all the music. What John didn't understand avoided a tedious lecture.

So there he was, laptop open, half-watching John in clothes that would make James Dean proud, as John started on the pizza dough. McClane was pure Scottish, but few people grew up in New York without exposure to other cultures. John's best recipes were learned from an Italian friend's mother, rebelling against his own mother's bland tuna casseroles. His hands were deft, confident, as he kneaded the dough and began twirling it, even flinging it over his head a few times, the dough flattening into a thin circle, which John promptly placed into a pizza pan.

He didn't consult a recipe as he spread the tomato sauce on the dough, then covered it liberally with mozzarella cheese. His knife flashed as he cut up Italian sausage, pepperoni, onions, mushrooms, and olives. He glanced at Matt as he added each ingredient, and Matt gave a nod of his head. Yeah, he knew eating vegetarian was better for the environment, but man simply wasn't meant to live without meat on his pizza.

As John worked, he sang. Not loudly, mostly under his breath. 'Fortunate Son,' of course, 'Proud Mary,' 'Who'll Stop The Rain,' 'I Heard It Through the Grapevine,' and other Creedence classics. John had a decent voice. Not a well trained or particularly striking voice, but one that blended decently with Creedence's lead singer, whoever he might be. Matt thought it was sufficient he recognized the songs. He'd never know the names of the band members.

A few times John's hips swayed in his tight blue jeans, his broad shoulders in clingy cotton following with the rhythmic movement, and he took a few side steps when especially engrossed in a song, like he might break out in dance. When he took a sip of his beer, he sang a phrase or two into the glass bottle, acting like it was a microphone. He was cooking and loving his music and enjoying himself, and it was weirdly cool to see John relaxed and having a good time, without the normal burdens and stresses of a cop's life.

John finished singing 'I Put A Spell On You' as he slid the pizza in the pre-heated oven. "You want a salad to go with it?"

"Um, yeah," Matt answered, gazing at his laptop screen, realizing he'd done fuck all on his coding, too absorbed in watching John and trying to pretend he wasn't. He'd have to finish after he got home.

"What do you like on it?" John buried himself in the refrigerator, pulling out a bag of lettuce and rifling through his vegetable tray. "I've got broccoli and carrot sticks."

"Yeah, those are good. It's all good," Matt said, staring at the curve of John's ass in faded denim, realizing he could watch John cook and sing to himself every night for the rest of his life. And that maybe he'd changed his mind about one small facet of 'classic rock.'

Because when a happy John McClane cooked for Matt and sang Creedence Clearwater Revival, it was the best damn music Matt had ever heard.

~ the end ~ 


End file.
